


It's a Long Way Forward

by lafcentric (readytobebolder)



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: (Very very mild its just a passing conversation), (for his best), Alternative Universe - Spoils of War, And then they weren't, Angst with a Happy Ending, But not for Gilbert not this time, Forgiveness, George the Tyrant, Gilbert the Courtesan, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous!Ben, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of The Past(tm), Realizing Feelings, Talk of Moving On, Talk of a La La Land sort of Love, Talk of the past, Where Things Used to be One Way, and maybe that's for the best, lots of jealousy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readytobebolder/pseuds/lafcentric
Summary: And it's a long way forward, so trust in meI'll give them shelter like you've done for meAnd I know, I'm not alone, you'll be watching over usUntil you're gone





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grumblebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Spoils of War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549539) by [grumblebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee). 



> This looks fun but I'm the Monarch of angst and it shall be PAINFUL.

There was a murmur along the crowd, plaguing the castle, and Ben frowned as he looked up from his roasted pig, eyes widening at the sight in front of him. George also looked up, eyebrows shooting up and, much to Benjamin’s surprise, he stood, walking over to the… newcomer.

“Gilbert,” the King smiled, taking the guest’s hand and bringing the back of it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss on them. Ben felt himself tense, knuckles white with the strength with which he held his knife and fork. “I did not expect you tonight. If I had, I would’ve made myself presentable.”

Teasing. Washington was _teasing_. Gilbert, with strawberry lips and a few curls framing his face, threw his head back and laughed, a sound that rang through the dinner hall and seemed to enchant everyone.

Well—everyone but _Ben._

“Townsend,” he spoke quietly, in a whisper, lest he be heard by his husband, currently charming the figure in chiffon and silk. “Who _is_ he?”

“That, your Highness, would be Gilbert du Motier,” he said, nodding over at him. “He’s a great friend of your husband, and a very cherished courtesan of this Kingdom. He runs the House of Lilith, an Inn that profits about one thousand—”

“A mistress of the night,” Ben deadpanned, eyes set on Gilbert, burning holes through the hand he was resting on George’s arm, coy and sly, back arched to make an enticing curve.

“Your Majesty, it’s not quite like that,” Townsend began, seemingly amused. “He’s a professional. He’s not a chamber boy, doesn’t carry ill intentions nor wish to rob your husband. He’s a professional, a very sought-after person whose services have been—”

“Did he fuck my husband?” Ben turned to the valet and Townsend flushed red and spluttered at the boldness Benjamin was exhibiting. The usually-reserved, monk-to-be rarely used such crass words but he had a feeling that Gilbert’s proximity to the King may have something to do with it. 

Yet he was confused—was the little King not disgusted by the tyrant? Each time he’d walked into their rooms in the morning, he’d found them back to back, about two feet away from each other, Benjamin’s face pinched as he watched the window and the outside. Townsend had thought that Ben had not changed at all, that he desired liberty from the shackles of marriage to his King, despite George’s efforts to let him be a free spirit. Well, as free as he could be.

“Well,” he began, not knowing how to phrase it. “Lord du Motier—“

“He’s a _Lord_ ,” Ben looked surprised and he basically spat out the phrase, eyes narrowed. “He’s a Lord and yet he—”

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” Townsend interrupted as he saw Ben’s face reddening with frustration, anger and, perhaps, jealousy? Could this be it? The one sign his Excellency had been waiting for? “He’s become a Lord himself, it is not by birth but by right. He’s done the people in this Kingdom a great lot of services, including your husband.”

“I can _see that_ ,” Ben seethed, watching like a hawk the way that whore plastered himself to George’s front, hands skimming over his jeweled jacket, smirking, lip stretching deliciously over the red coat of lipstick he wore. “I’ll repeat this question only once more, Townsend, and I expect an answer. _Did he fuck my husband_?”

Townsend was at a loss of words—truly, he’d never seen the King act this way! So frivolous, so… mean. He had no idea how to approach such a Tallmadge when he was with hot temper but he took a deep breath and settled himself, his mind, knowing that what would come next could _not_ be good. Could _not_ end well.

“Lord du Motier was hired as a young little thing for His Majesty’s needs at age sixteen,” he explained and oh, the _fury_ he saw on Benjamin’s face when he realized the implication of his words. “Gilbert has been ever since a good friend of the Royal Washington family, my King, and he’s been truly useful as a merchant and—”

“George blooded him first,” Ben’s nostrils flared as his husband threw his head back and laughed, hand on Gilbert’s elbow. “And _he_ had the pleasure of being the future King’s thief of his boyhood.”

“I—yes. I suppose so,” Townsend mumbled, still astounded at Benjamin’s attitude.

It wasn’t surprising, though, when Benjamin stood, leaving the room hastily and probably resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. It was only then that the King looked up, startled out of his thoughts and out of Gilbert’s spell by the sound his husband had made. He frowned, looking slightly annoyed at the fact that Benjamin had been so rude as to leave without a warning—without even introducing himself. It was unlike him to do such a thing. Did he feel unwell?

“Oh, dear,” Gilbert giggled into his shoulder in his thick foreign accent, the soft ropes of the r sound lost to him. “I hope I’ve not upset your little King.”

“Beg your pardon?” George blinked at him, startled.

“Well, I believe that draping myself all over you may have angered your husband’s oh, so well-hidden temper,” he giggled again and George sighed, shaking his head. “Non? It seemed like so, chérie.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere private where we can speak freely?” he offered his arm and Gilbert immediately looped both of his own arms around it, following the so-called tyrant into the depths of his wondrous castle.

It was only when they were in the safety of his private study that George allowed himself to shed the mask of marble, watching Gilbert drape himself over his comfortable little couch, the chiffon and silk falling over him as if arranged to be as flattering as could be. He’d always been marveled at his first time’s beauty, the thief of his boyhood—and thief of his heart for the first year they’d met.

“You look good,” he whispered as he sat next to him, letting his true age show on his face as Gilbert cupped his face.

“Speak to me, my King,” his long-time friend begged with a quiet voice, gentle and soothing like waves lapping at the shore, at his feet, in the land where they’d met, full of sand castles and birds of white and grey. “My only purpose in this life is to serve you to the best of my abilities. What ails you so that you must look so maudlin?”

“My friend,” he sighed, taking Gilbert’s hand, entwining their fingers together. How long had they known each other? Fifteen, twenty years? Gilbert had been so young when they’d met, already knowing his purpose in life since his birth and yet so small, so scared of it. And George, sixteen, barely a man, had stuttered his way across their meeting, his mother showing the whites of her eyes at his attitude.

Now Gilbert had no more fat to his cheeks and his body was defined—he knew that body well, as well as Gilbert knew his. Mornings and afternoons spent together in bed, under his silken sheets, discovering the pleasure of a warm body under his, blood singing with the bliss of climax, laughter as he fumbled and knocked things and stuttered and failed the process of sex. Gilbert laughed with him, never laughed _at_ him.

George missed that feeling. And he’d missed Gilbert.

“My husband is terrified of me,” he whispered, eyes fluttering close as Gilbert’s soft—oh, so very soft hand caressed his cheek. “He desires me no more than one desires a weed in their garden.”

“And this hurts you, hurts _you_ and not your pride,” Gilbert clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, but he seemed so jealous of me just now, dearest. Grinding his teeth, glaring at me with those Tallmadge eyes. Are you sure he thinks as you say?”

“I—he what?” he frowned, opening his eyes, finding Gilbert’s bemused smirk. The more they grew, the more present that expression became. And the more ruthless George had been when he’d desired him.

“He was jealous,” Gilbert said slowly, smirk falling into a soft smile, still touching him reverently, drawing small sighs from George. “My darling, he may not know it but he does care for you a minimum. At least enough to be jealous of a whore—”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he snapped, hand reaching to grab at his wrist, making Gilbert roll his pretty doe-like eyes. “You know I dislike it,” he added gently, rubbing his thumb against his pulse.

“It is what I am,” Gilbert spoke, delicate shoulders shrugging, a curl falling over his eyes. George would’ve pushed it behind his ear had it not accentuated his long time friend’s stunning beauty. “As you are an Emperor. As you are a King. As you are my superior.”

“And a friend,” George insisted, kissing his palm.

“Your actions contradict your words,” Gilbert laughed, freeing his hand easily, standing, moving to his liquor cabinet with all the ease and familiarity in the world. “But I’ll let it slide. Now,” he turned, glass of sweet wine on his hand, his red lips tasting it before he smirked. “Let’s talk about your husband.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short but I'm working on the other chapters and college is kicking my ass. Animation is no joke, guys!

“He’s pretty, I guess,” Ben mumbled, watching the ceiling as Baker hummed, stitching up one of the Marybelle’s dresses, the little servant always tripping on her own feet. “I mean, when he came, the King looked… _everyone_ looked…”

“Charmed? Marveled? Like Lord du Motier just enraptured the whole room with just the sweep of his eyelashes?” Baker smirked as Ben gave him a sour look, pouting, turning his back to him. It made the servant laugh, poking the back of Ben’s thigh with his foot. “My King, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!” Benjamin said immediately, raising himself into a sitting position as if a spring had been placed on his back, his cheeks red with fury. “I’m _embarrassed_!”

Baker cocked an eyebrow, amused yet also conveying how confused he was about Ben’s entire reasoning.

“Embarrassed,” Baker stated. “Why?”

“Be _cause_ ,” a sigh tumbled out of his lips, Benjamin’s cornflower blue eyes settling on the ceiling. “He… he made me look so _bad_ in front of everyone. He waltzed in and my husband was immediately charmed and he was smiling and even laughing, teasing. And whenever I’m around Washington, he’s serious. Aloof. And the _entire court_ saw that. Now I’m… I feel as if I were so inappropriate. A boring King, a were-to-be-monk who spends his days boring his husband instead of giving him what he needs.”

“Well, did you not wish to be on your own?” Baker asked slowly. “Did you not wish your lives were separate?”

“I—“ Ben froze. “Well, I—yes but—but the _court_ —”

“Since when have you given a single spare thought to the court?” this time, Baker frowned, leaving his tools on the coffee table next to him. “Your Highness, what is it? Did you not want your husband to forget you were here at all? To be entertained by chamber boys and leave you be?”

Benjamin watched the ceiling, eyes going soft, then moving to the window, where he spent so much time looking over the mountains.

“He looked… happy,” he whispered.

“What?” Baker frowned. “Lord du Motier?”

“No, no, not _him_ … my husband. King George,” he said quietly, sitting up, running a hand through his now messy hair, strands of gold catching on his sweaty digits. “He saw that mistress of the night and… he smiled with his whole face. I think I’ve never seen him smile like that, you know. I… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him _happy_. Who is Gilbert du Motier? And why does he make my husband so happy? It can’t be just sex…”

Baker made a face, grimaced, wondered how he could explain to the little King the tumultuous relationship between the courtesan and the tyrant when the door opened and the two froze, looking over to find, well, Lord du Motier.

“Ah! Here you are!” he smiled at Benjamin, who kept frowning at him, distrust shining on his face. “I believe we haven’t met yet!”

“Lord du Motier,” Benjamin replied dryly, standing, eyes colder than their usual warm tone.

“Call me Lafayette, please, I beg you,” they grinned, sauntering over to grasp his hand and kiss the back of it. Under normal circumstances, Ben might’ve blushed, maybe even stuttered through his next sentence but all he could see was the Lord in front of him—challenging him, daring to walk into his chambers unannounced and not even bow like most would.

“Lafayette,” Ben spoke slowly. “Yet my husband calls you Gilbert.”

“Well, George and I are quite close, Your Majesty, you’ll forgive me if we use, ah… _intimate_ terms,” the corner of his mouth lifted and Ben felt his cheeks burn in frustration and shame. How dare this common whore _fuck_ his husband and be _smug_ about it? “But enough about your husband! I wish to know you and you’ve fled so quickly from luncheon! Wouldn’t you like me to walk you through the gardens, your Highness?”

“Shouldn’t _I_ walk _you_?” Ben cocked an eyebrow, trying to look at him down his nose but Lafayette was taller—and more clever, it’d seem. Also crueler.

“Ah, you’d like to show me the gardens I’ve walked since I was thirteen?” he giggled. Touched his hair. Bit his lip. Naturally flirtatious but Ben felt no attraction to him, only utter, pure, uncensored—

 _Jealousy_.

 


End file.
